I have daydreams of a far-off place, in the company of people I don’t know. I swear they could be memories or premonitions, and whether they surface by intense nostalgia or a deep yearning, I can never tell. There is an ache in my chest, a void left by a missing past and a promise of the future.

Do you dream of transcendence? Do you dream of a planet whose only landmass is a giant strip of shoreline? Do you dream of lost gardens, of the drowning sun witnessed from a third floor window? Of breathing in the fog-blanketed mountain top air, air like whispers from the mouth of a grieving world, air so thin it stings your lungs, leaving tattoos in the shape of the life we ought to live? Do you dream of silence? Of synchronized heartbeats? Of untamed emotion? Of release and catharsis?

Do you dream of the complex societal machinery where true love is the most potent renewable resource, where the cogs that push humanity further into the unknown are fueled by high-octane unleaded empathy and compassion?

Do you dream that one day, we will take matters into our own hands, and fight tooth and nail for the things we believe in? That one day, all question marks will shed their curls, and all voids in our chests will cement into periods, and we will declare with full confidence that, yes, dreams do come true.

I’ve convinced myself that fantasy is to be found elsewhere, always forgetting that fantasy is not about escaping reality but dwelling excessively within it, where curiosity and wonder build the mundane anew. The tired mind consciously hallucinates, places Instagram filters, augments reality through virtual headsets, forgetting about the fire in our veins and the mythos of our stellar heritage.

And yet the pain remains, a cancer of the soul that refuses to let go, no matter how many times I’ve tried to fill it. How does one cure a black hole? You don’t; space would certainly have less secrets without it.

I remember myself saying once, “The more words you use to convey your story, the less I believe in the world you’ve constructed.” It’s something I still uphold to this day.

I recently made a blog post on video games and loneliness, and a common trait of these video games is that fact that they completely skimp out on verbal narration, or on words entirely. They are quiet games that let images and actions dictate the story. I absolutely adore it when I am able to extract so much information from a wordless scene. Narratorial hand-holding has never been my thing. If I want a story, I’d rather discover it on my own, than have the story itself spoonfeed me.

If a story feels the need to constantly explain itself with lengthy cutscenes or expository dialogue (I’m looking at you, BioWare and Bethesda games. And basically all epic fantasy/sci-fi novels), it shows how little confidence the story has that you will be able to pick these things up from context clues.

So where does that leave a fiction writer like me? I work with words, so doesn’t that mean more words is always a plus? It ultimately depends on how these words are used.

Take Gene Wolfe, for example. [Spoiler alert, but you really can’t avoid spoilers when you talk about this book] His masterpiece The Book of the New Sun is a 4-volume tome that is as thick as it is nearly impenetrable. It takes place in the distant future, when the sun has begun to die, a time where unknown, unrecorded, and unexplained calamities have devastated this world to the point that no one remembers what things used to be called or what their uses once were. Hence, we are taken on a massive quest in the guise of a surreal, Gothic fantasy novel, when it fact, it is more science fiction than anything else, and we only get to have an inkling of that more than 3/4ths of the way into the novel! There is an epic quest in here but instead of laying out the scene in graphic detail, he describes his world in a way that an actual character of this world would describe it: to the best of their knowledge, which is to say, not very much, despite the protagonist proclaiming that he has eidetic memory (perfect recollection). Space travel is described as light-fishes moving across mirrors; aliens are described only loosely and one would initially think they’re just another “class” of human; strange creatures inhabit this world and yet we only get the barest of descriptions as to their nature; and the characters are definitely much more than who they seem and discovering their identities or what they are often results in mindblowing revelations. There are hidden Biblical references; tons of obsolete Latin words abound; and things are never as they appear. The world Gene Wolfe has created is hazy and amorphous and lacking in distinct shape. The shapes change after every new chapter you read, after each new interpretation you come across.

Gene Wolfe once said, “Real people really are unreliable narrators all the time, even if they try to be reliable narrators.” Common sense dictates that it is unwise to trust unreliable narrators but there is always something so alluring about it, something so unquestionably human that a narrator would forgo accuracy to tell the story they want to tell. You can infer so many things about what they decide to talk about, and what they decide to leave out. This is why restraint and subtlety is very important to me when it comes to reading and writing fiction.

To me, the most interesting stories arise from the untold details, which is why a lot of mainstream RPGs and fantasy novels are very unappealing to me. No, I don’t want to listen to your deliberate attempts to flesh out your world. No, don’t tell me histories as if they were written in books. Tell me histories that arise from your psyche. Tell me histories that surface from interaction with your surroundings. Please trust that us readers are intelligent enough to deduce, to theorize. Let me interpret your universe.

I get monthly visitors, but instead of stabbing pain, I get an enveloping lethargy and a heavy heart. I thought it best to take advantage of these emotions and scatter them here.

I’ve been doubting my self-worth. For years now. All I have that I can boast of are my masturbatory ramblings and petty fixations and ostentatious writing, and try as I might to contribute to any discussion, I find that I’m just waddling around, scared that whatever I say might be antagonized or found flawed and misinformed—in fact, it has probably traumatized me, for as much as I’d attempted to assert myself in the past, time and time again have my ideas been proved childish, angsty, and reactionary, and I’ve been told off countless times and I never seemed to learn from it. I have become more subdued nowadays, because of this fear—which leads me to frightening dilemmas: That maybe I might have some kind of mental disorder that hinders me from grasping things the way my friends believe things to be. That maybe I have nothing worth saying after all.

More and more I realize that I probably don’t have what it takes to be part of certain communities, when people of higher initiatives seek to be around others like them, and I remain in the background, because I don’t know how to promote myself. All I know how to do is to follow other people’s leads, riding on their coattails. People tend to skim over me because my worth weighs as much as my involvement, which is to say, barely any.

I have built a disreputable image for myself. “Noel hates everything” is a phrase I keep on hearing over and over again, and when I do like things, I get the response, “Finally, we like the same things!” as if I’d never liked anything before. It tears me up from the inside to have people think I hate everything they like, that hate is the only feeling they remember me for, and it would take a gargantuan amount of effort to fix it, particularly now that I’ve developed an incredible anxiety whenever I speak out.

Public image isn’t something easily remedied, especially once people have solidified their opinions of you. It is very easy to unfriend or unfollow someone, abandoning the minute possibility that these people might one day change, and it’s extremely hard to get people to care about the things you do, if everything you’ve ever done doesn’t convince them that you’re a necessary person to have around.

I have this inordinate desire to be recognized as different, to assert my individuality at the cost of pushing others away. I lack the passion to truly commit and the intelligence to truly understand. I feel like every disagreement seeks to prove that I don’t know anything, that I’m full of fancy words and no heart. Being left out scares me, but at the same time, confrontations do too, and the only thing I want is approval, which is an unhealthy way to go about things, which is why I feel like I’ve brought about my own downfall. And the worst thing about it is, I’m not sure if I still have the vigor in me to be and act important, to chase what I desire.

I always talk like I’m sure of myself but never before have I been more confused. A larger part of me wants to be content with the way things are. To be content with my small circle of friends and lack of initiative and ambition. It’s easier this way.

This sadness has only made me cry twice, but both times, I sobbed like a pathetic idiot, floundering in the dark, who doesn’t know which way is up and which way is down. They say “walking is controlled falling.” The only thing I know I can do is to keep myself from falling. So maybe I’ll just continue walking.

What is it about loneliness as a theme found in certain fantasy stories—the stories centered on hapless, solitary figures whose obscure motivations are illuminated by whatever scant (yet meaningful) interaction they have with their environments—that are able to resonate with me like no other? Note that these things I am about to mention aren’t truly about “loneliness” in an individual sense, since you are always at some points accompanied by someone else. It is the kind of loneliness from a grander perspective—the notion that there is a “we” but the “they” is either unresponsive or nonexistent—the notion that touches on the existential musings, “Why am I doing this?” and “What else is out there?”

Shadow of the Colossus is a prime example of this. A lone Wander trespasses into forbidden sacred grounds to do a creepy godlike voice’s bidding by slaying otherwise peaceful giants, scattered across a bucolic landscape strewn with long-untrodden pathways and serene forests and rivers and vast, empty plains, and only speculation could ever hope to envision what kind of civilization exists outside the sacred ground’s walls, how they came across an evil god and sealed it within the temple, what amount of hard work was put into constructing these monumental ruins that stand as a reminder of what once was a thriving ancient culture. But there is no one left—only Wander, and his faithful steed, and this lonely paradise is yours for the taking.

Ico, the precursor to Shadow of the Colossus, also has this, albeit on a much smaller scale. A child imprisoned for simply being born with horns, the eponymous Ico escapes his cell and has to navigate through cavernous chambers, corridors, ramparts, and gardens of an empty castle, accompanied by Yorda, a silent girl with skin and a dress both as white as light. And yet again, the isolated story ever so vaguely hints at an external civilization that is equal parts mysterious and excruciatingly unknowable. Why are children with horns feared? Is it connected to Shadow of the Colossus lore-wise in any way, considering Wander’s transformation into a horned baby near the end? What is the rest of this world like? What do its people think? We will never know, and we’re left to focus on Ico and his wordless relationship with Yorda and their surroundings, in this fantastically ponderous bildungsroman.

In Journey, you control a mysterious robed figure whose only purpose is to reach a mountain, visible in the distance, by trudging through sand and snow and harsh winds. Across deserts are scattered graves and ruins of a dead civilization whose histories remain carved on still standing walls. No words are spoken, but everything you need to know comes to you in dreams and images, and sometimes, that’s all you need to get a story across.

In Souls games, and most recently in Bloodborne, you are always the nameless adventurer who enters doomed civilizations at their worst, be it due to foolish kings who accidentally unleashed the wrath of old gods, damning an entire city, or due to a curse inherent within all humanity that inevitably leads to the world’s degradation. No matter what, in all Souls games, everyone is fucked, and so are you, and every single character is alone in their own way. They each have their own personal battles, and only you can bring yourself to conquer the trial that is a Souls game. And it’s this lonely, oppressive atmosphere that draws me, hopelessly, into worlds like this, like a moth to a flame. Fantastic landscapes that range from the impossibly beautiful to the horrifically grotesque are backdrops that serve as storytelling devices in their own right, and even as you fight your way through beast-infested streets and haunted libraries and ancient battlegrounds, you realize that these places are devoid of any life. NPC interactions are sparse, and they may even turn hostile on you, betraying previous friendships in the onset of madness. The lack of outright narration and dialogue further obscures whatever story you can extract from these places and only an inquisitive researcher will be able to piece together the clues that form a vivid, often mindblowingly revelatory picture of how kingdoms like these came to their demise, how each area and each element played a significant role in determining the kingdoms’ present states, and what sorts of human folly were involved in their descent.

Because the worlds of these stories are so vast and so empty, it only serves to amplify the feeling of “loneliness” despite there being a few other characters you are able to interact with. Even in today’s society, surrounded by so much people on and off the internet, we still manage to feel extreme bouts of loneliness every now and again, simply because of the difficulty involved in understanding what’s outside the “walls” of our bodies—in trying to decode what other people think and mean. Video games like the ones I mentioned have a lot of room for introspection, and these stories give the audience ample time to speculate, to draw conclusions from the barest of hints, to ultimately create their own interpretation. The background comes to the foreground, and the setting and all spaces in between become echo chambers dripping with ambiance—they become lived-in epitomes of what makes fantasy so alluring in the first place: the mystery, the sheer unfathomability, the personal struggles in an unforgiving world that doesn’t even try to explain itself to you. And things like these are reminders, that even in other worlds—those magical other worlds often accused of being “escapist”—not all of our questions are answered, not all wishes are fulfilled. And as much as we try to mull over what it all means, our contexts and the epochs surrounding us, it is always the personal battles that mean the most, and I guess that’s why I adore stories like these so much.

Blog, truncation of “weblog.” Blog. Blogblogblog. Blog. It sounds like Adam West ramming himself into a throng of scheming baddies, or the mating call of an amphibious science-fiction monstrosity. It sounds like falling down stairs, or explosive old-people farts. Blog. It’s a funny word, one that I don’t have much of an attachment to, which is decidedly strange, considering the skillset I’ve chosen to hone these past twenty or so years. I’m a writer, for lack of a better term. And what’s a writer without the admission or at least the belief that I can handle words more proficiently than others? (Although the admission on its own should never be an indication of expertise, not in the slightest.)

I used to hate labels. “I’m not a writer, I’m a human who just happens to write.” Well, it’s not wrong, but it sure is cute, and it’s not something I agree with that much anymore. Statements like this verge on idealism, masturbatory reveling in one’s own uniqueness. What made my works so different from the others, that I decided to extract myself from such a community? Who said you couldn’t be many other things apart from being a writer and a human being? All skillsets considered (web-surfing, music-listening, and bed-sleeping), writing is what I believe I do best, and I will continue calling myself a writer for as long as I have the means to transcribe. I hope I don’t lose faculty over my fingers any time soon or I will have to resort to oral—that is, typing with my mouth.

I am a writer. Words are my currency. And like money, words don’t come easy to me. I feel like an even greater responsibility is placed upon me, and I find myself carefully mulling over words in my head on and my tongue, trying on entire wardrobes in the fitting room before finally being happy with my choice, only to find out later that there were a million other configurations, more mellifluous, more meaningful than the one I’d settled on.

Settling—that’s part of being a writer, I’m led to think. But this kind of settling doesn’t mean staying in one place. To settle also means having to decide on, to be happy with, to stick to one thing and bring it with you wherever you go. Precision is an illusion. Typing up the ideal sequence of words seems more Sisyphean the more it’s endeavored. The writer should be constantly on the move, aiming to better themself, which is why more time should be spent moving forward, and less time rolling the same rock.

I began this entry with a purpose. Now, the purpose has sprouted legs of its own and has allowed my mind to wander. I am a writer and this is my long overdue blog. Never mind that it doesn’t have an audience. Never mind that I have so few things worth saying. This is for no one but me.